


Cooking for an Army

by a_xmasmurder



Series: Bucky Barnes Finds a Friend [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Baking, Bucky Barnes finds a Friend, Cats, Cooking, Gen, Making House, Pets, The Avengers have Lists, The Avengers have Supper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-04
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-28 02:41:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2715905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_xmasmurder/pseuds/a_xmasmurder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky's on cooking duty. Little Shit and Clint help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cooking for an Army

**Author's Note:**

> Edit: the hover text has been fixed, along with any typos. If there are more, let me know! 

They have a list on the community board hanging in the kitchen next to the industrial sized fridge. Well, actually, they have a few lists - groceries, chores, days to not disturb particular Avengers, times not to go anywhere near Tony’s workshop - normal stuff like that. But the list that matters to Bucky right now is the list that is telling him that since he is an unofficial Avenger he has to cook supper. He stares at it. Takes a gulp of vodka from the glass he's holding. He stares at his name, circled in red and decorated with little stars and smiley faces. There’s also a few notes next to his name.

_Don’t make pigs in a blanket. We had that three days in a row thanks to Natasha. - Iron Man_

_No salad. Last time I checked, no one here is a rabbit. - Hawkeye_

_~~Cranberries have to be involved, somehow. - Nat~~ _

_**NO CRANBERRIES EVER**. - Hawkeye_

Bucky huffs and opens the fridge door. Over Lunatic Calm thrumming over the sound system built into the walls, he curses. There’s twenty cartons of eggs and not much else. “You have got to be kidding me.” He grabs four cartons - Steve and Sam go through eggs like nobody’s business because of their stupid metabolisms and let's not talk about himself - and retreats to the cabinet. There, he finds a couple cans of black olives, five potatoes, an onion, and Spam. Ten cans of it, in fact. He sighs. “Breakfast for dinner it is.”

He slides the eggs onto the counter above his head and pulls his findings out of the cabinet. “God help me, if there isn’t cheese I might have to - _le gasp!_ \- go shopping. Oh, the horror! Setting the Winter Soldier loose on the unsuspecting little old ladies at the supermarket!” He sneaks a peek at the 'Which Avenger is supposed to shop this week?' list and snorts. “Does Thor even know how to shop? He’s a prince of Asgard. Food appears on his table, he eats it. Pretty sure all he'd end up with is Pop Tarts and a giant slab of ham.” He walks back over to the fridge and pulls out the butter and cheese he’d missed on the first forage and the jugs of milk and orange juice, shuts the door with his hip, and carries everything over to the counter. "Maybe some grapes. Or tangerines. He likes those things." Little Shit appears at his feet. "I'm not feeding you, go destroy some plants. Or toilet paper."

"Mreow-ow!"

"No. It's the adult's turn, you have crunchies in the corner. Eat that."

"Myeah!"

"And I'm still saying no."

As he’s rummaging around for a really big griddle or at least a frying pan of decent size, he thinks about the giant jar of flour next to the coffee maker. When he pulls down the cutting board and turns on a fan in preparation for mincing the onion, he remembers the three bags of chocolate chunks in the cabinet. He throws a few pats of butter into each pan on the stove and sets aside three sticks for no reason after setting the oven to preheat. He pulls off his overshirt and switches from vodka to a smooth whiskey - Steve’s favorite - and pulls a dish rag off the oven door as he passes it. In another cabinet he finds a bag of dark brown sugar and a bit of vanilla extract next to the black pepper grinder and bag of dried cranberries. _Score._ A bowl here, a used mixer there, mixing spoons knocked off the counter by a flour-dusted Little Shit, kitchen shears tucked into his back pocket and bits of chocolate on his tongue - _God, I've missed chocolate something fierce_ \- and he’s flicking his wrist to fold the seventh cheese and potato omelette in the pan when Steve wanders into the kitchen on a mission for food. Steve halts halfway in. “Holy cow, you’ve taken the place over!”

Bucky grins as he wipes his hands on the dish rag over his shoulder, then realizes that yes, Steve is right. He’s using the whole kitchen, which is normally something only Clint does. The table in the middle is halfway set, piles of omelets in the middle on a platter with cups and silverware. When did he do that?

Clint sticks his head into the room. “The whole Tower smells divine. Who’s channeling their inner Alton Brown - oh. Hi Bucky.” He rounds the corner, looking for all the world like a dog searching for a scrap. “Tony’s down in his workshop, so you’ll probably have to make a delivery. Need some help?”

Bucky feels his grin growing. Clint is fucking brilliant at cooking, he’s found. “I don’t actually remember doing a lot of this, but it seems I have forgone napkins. And plates.”

“On it, Sarge.”

As Clint maneuvers around Steve, Bucky blinks. _Sarge?_ He looks up at Steve. _They call him Cap. Why the hell not?_ He turns back to his cooking, sliding the newest omelet out of the pan. A bit of onion snaps in the butter and lands on his wrist. He sticks the offending spot in his mouth and sucks at it. “Damn it, that’s gonna sting.” He grumbled and poured more eggs into the pan. Clint twirls around him, plates in hand like a truck-stop waitress, humming along with the music. “Heads up, man, your cat is eating the cookie dough.”

Bucky drops the pan onto the stove. “Little SHIT!” He scoops up the tabby and levels his best ‘You are in trouble and I will send you to the pound if you keep this shit up’ look. All she does is lick her jowls and level him with her best ‘Go ahead and try, human, I will find you and fuck you up’ look.

Her look wins by a landslide.

“The way you can have silent conversations with your cat is unnerving, Barnes.” Natasha stuck her finger into the batter and licked it off. “Hmm, could use more vanilla.”

Bucky stares at her, then hands Little Shit over to her. “House rules, Nat. Cook picks the spices, guest shuts their cakehole. Be happy I added cranberries for your ungrateful ass.”

Clint barks out a laugh, startling Sam from snitching a fingerful of batter for himself. “Oh my god, you don’t. You can not watch that show, Bucky. You just can’t!”

The timer for the oven dings, and Bucky yanks on the handle with his pinky and grabs the pan of cookies out of the heat with his metal hand. “Who doesn’t watch Supernatural?”

“I don’t.” Bruce sits down at the table and accepts a plate from Clint, sliding an omelet onto it and tucking in.

“Sit and eat, Steve. We have to talk about things.” Natasha points at a chair, and Steve sits. Little Shit leaps out of her arms and onto Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky tosses the pan of cookies onto the free spot on the counter to let them cool and runs back over to flip his omelet. As people filter in, Bucky cooks more and more omelets and drinks more and more whiskey. Clint forgoes eating in favor of helping out with the absolutely gigantic batch of cookie dough, plopping cookies on the tray and popping them into the oven. He also helps out with the bottle. They work around each other like they’ve been partners for a few centuries. Bucky loves it, loves having someone at his back again. Even if the most dangerous thing is a cat that steals cookie dough and a hot pan or two.

“It’s like a choreographed dance of food. A ballet of calories.” Natasha leans into Rhodey’s space by the door, and he covers his egg plate protectively. She’s been known to steal eggs. “It’s beautiful.”

"Back to your seat, Nat, you've got your own food." Rhodey doesn't sound upset, even when she steals a bit of olive.

“And there’s cat hair in my food.” Tony grouses. "I was lured up to the kitchen by Pepper and a plate of cookies, only to be forced to eat eggs with hair in them. For the record, I am not happy." But he’s dutifully shoving his fork into the omelet and then shoving the food into his mouth, so Bucky counts it as a win.

“Get used to it, Stark.” Natasha throws her napkin at him. “Just wait until she’s old enough to shed. She looks like a long-hair breed. Summer should be fun.”

“Ugh, let me make my Roomba army, please?” Tony whines up at Pepper, who only shakes her head and sets a smoothie in front of him. “We need one. Or twenty.”

Bucky laughs, feeling lighter than he has in a long time. Clint bumps hips with him. “Hey, did you make a batch without cranberry death in it?”

“What do you have against cranberries?” Natasha shovels more omelet in her mouth in a very un-ladylike display of hunger. "Го́споди! This is great, James.”

Bucky shrugs. “Fried potatoes are what makes it. Potatoes were a popular thing back then. Easy to cook, easy to cook with. And since you crazies literally only have the fixin’s for omelets in your stocks, it wasn’t hard to do. And yes, the small batch in the glass bowl is yours and Steve’s, Clint, since he hates cranberries too.”

“Oh, good.” Clint plops the latest batch of cookies on the counter and scowls. “Is your cat eating my omelet?”

“Shit!” Bucky abandons the stove and snatches Little Shit off the table and away from Clint’s plate. Natasha steals it instead.

“Aw, omelet!” Clint groans. “No cookies for you, Nat!” He snatches up his plate, scoops another omelet out of the pile before Sam can, and carries it to the oven. “I’m gonna make all the cookies, and you are going to -”

Little Shit leaps out of Bucky’s hands and onto Clint’s shoulder, slides down his chest, and lands dead center in the omelet. Everyone in attendance howls in glee. Clint and Bucky stare. “Oh. My. God.” Clint looks back up at Bucky. “This cat has Natasha’s balls. Seriously.”

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